


this is not love

by galamiel



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:20:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4137342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galamiel/pseuds/galamiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she cannot say it/he cannot know</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is not love

“I think my mother would have been like you,” he says one night, holding her in his arms. Her dark curls are plastered to his sweat-soaked chest and he brushes them away, smoothes her hair back and cradles her cheek.

“Like me?” her voice is light and humorous, a far cry from the tone she took with most of the people they spoke with on a daily basis. “In what manner? An emotionless psychopath, bred for violence and on a quest for vengeance?” she’s joking, or at least he assumes she is, but her words carry a bitter taste. He can feel her hot breath against his skin and she stirs, fitting more comfortably into his embrace.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I meant,” he says, deadpan. “No. I mean, I think she would be strong like you. Able to face opposition, to look everyone who hated and reviled her in the eye and stare them down. To outmatch even the strongest of foes.”

“You overestimate my abilities,” she says, voice soft. “I think your mother was probably a better woman than I ever will be. After all, she gave Ferelden its king.”

“Do you think she thought about me?” he asks her abruptly. “Before... before I was born, I mean? Do you think she wanted me?”

She leans her face up and presses a kiss to the stubbled underside of his jaw. “Undoubtedly,” she tells him, as full of confidence as she always is. “She dreamt of holding her golden haired son in her arms and keeping him from whatever political backlash those high and mighty nobles might’ve come up with,” he laughs and she continues. “She dreamt of raising her little boy alongside her little girl and teaching him songs and how to cook things other than charred rabbit. And she’d be proud of the warrior, the grey warden, the king her son became.”

He presses his forehead to hers and breathes in her scent, the sharp tang of metal and softer musk of leather. “And you?” he asks quietly, kissing the tip of her freckled nose.

She knows what he wants her to say, feels his callused hand gently smooth over the improbable swell of her belly, but she is a blunt woman, honest to a fault.

“I was a teyrn’s daughter,” she tells him. “I always knew I would be married off to secure a political alliance someday. And with marriage comes children.”

“‘Secure a political alliance’? Ouch,” he says and she laughs, kisses his cheek. “But you... you never thought of your future children? Of raising them? Having your own family?”

She shrugs. “I grew up with a family. Fergus had a wife and son--I knew I would end up in such a situation. I felt there was no purpose in daydreaming about love or family. My father was a kind man, but I would be lucky if he decided to marry me off to a man I would grow to care for. I never thought,” she broke off, voice going flat. “I never thought for half a second I’d be the one to propose the political marriage.”

“I love you,” he tells her, and she falls silent for a moment.

Finally, she speaks:

“I never dreamt of golden haired babies,” she says. “But I am not opposed to the idea.”


End file.
